The Gift of the Choushin
by Beagle-san
Summary: An Alternate Universe Christmas fic, an adaptation of O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi"


The Gift of the Choushin  
  
By Beagle-san  
  
Hi! And Merry Christmas, Happy New Years and Happy Holidays! In case you didn't know, and you probably do, Tenchi Muyo! is owned by AIC and Pioneer LDC. This is a non-profit fic. "The Gift of the Magi" was written by O. Henry. To whatever extent legally permissible, the writing and story are the intellectual property of the author, and may not be reprinted without permission.  
  
This story is an adaptation of O. Henry's classic tale of the true meaning of Christmas. So, credit must be given to this great American writer. The Tenchi Muyo! characters who appear are not from any particular continuity, as this is an alternate universe story. But the inspiration to me is always the OVA. And so, without further rambling....  
  
The Gift of the Choushin  
  
Adapted by Beagle-san  
  
Check the account once. Check the account twice. Check it again, and again, and again. And still the numbers don't increase. No sudden boon from a rich relative. No sudden discovery that you're royalty in disguise. All that's in the account is what has been scrimped and saved for months, bargaining with the grocer and balancing a budget in a manner that would do any housewife in Jurai City proud. But each time Aeka counted, the numbers never changed. And tomorrow would be Startica.  
  
There was nothing else to do but weep into the second hand sofa that was the centerpiece of the small apartment's living room. So Aeka did it. Life may be made up of sobs, sniffles and smiles, but right now the young woman with tears trickling down her face could not be convinced of anything other than that sobs and sniffles predominate throughout life.  
  
While the lady of the house is moving from sobs to sniffles, with smiles only a remote possibility today, take a look at the home. A furnished apartment, so like many others advertised in the copy of the local paper which lies open next to the young woman who is weeping on the couch. Go across from the portion of the "wanted" section which is still crumpled in the hand of the sobbing girl, and check out the area which says "apartments for rent". Sooner or later, meaning everyday, there will be at least half dozen advertisements describing the dwelling in question as "perfect for the young Guardsman and family."  
  
Having already met the "family", in the form of the pretty girl with tears in her eyes, an inspection of the homestead would reveal a cramped yet neat apartment, old but well kept by its inhabitants. A true starter home for "young Guardsman and family," but one in which no occupant would stay longer than necessary.  
  
But what of the "young Guardsman?" Go downstairs to the entrance hall, where the post boxes are filled with all too many bills, and not enough paychecks, and attached to the box whose number corresponds to that occupied at the moment by a young lady drying her eyes, you will see a card bearing the name "Mr. T. Masaki." The card is battered, old and worn, a relic of better days. But whenever Mr. T. Masaki came home and reached the apartment on the 5th floor, usually after walking up the stairs since the elevator seemed to work only on odd numbered Thursdays, he was called "Tenchi" and would be greatly hugged and kissed by Mrs. T. Masaki, already introduced to you as Aeka. Which is all very good.  
  
Aeka finished her cry and with a resolute sigh put her face back in order, as women will do after a session of weeping. The next day would be Startica, and she did not have enough money to buy Tenchi a present. Aeka had been saving every credit she could for months, with this dismal result. A "young Guardsman's" salary doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. So little money to buy a present, no, not enough money to buy a present for Tenchi. Her Tenchi. She had passed so much pleasant time while performing her household chores, dreaming of something nice to get for him. Something nice and fine and rare and sterling...something which even came close to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Tenchi.  
  
Even a starter apartment for "young Guardsman and family" will have a mirror. What home, no matter how humble doesn't have a mirror for the lady of the house to judge her own looks by?  
  
Into that mirror Aeka now stared. With a last glance down at the crumbled advertisement section in her hand, the young woman discarded the tattered paper into the waste basket, and with determination in her eyes, she unbraided her hair, letting it fall free in its full body and length.  
  
Treasures of rarity and priceless worth are possessed in the most unlikely of places, if you know where to look. Even on a rundown street in one of the more financially deprived sections of Jurai City, treasures abound. The cute little blue-haired girl who lives two buildings down had the cooking skill of a master chef, despite not having yet turned ten. The cyan-haired woman who ran the corner bar owned the most amazing cabbit, capable of doing almost any trick you could think of, merely for the exchange of a carrot.  
  
Now, there were two possessions of the T. Masaki household in which they both took immense pride. One was Tenchi's sword, an heirloom passed down from his grandfather. Intricately carved, the old sword enabled the young man to forego the need of drawing one of the standard issue swords from the Guard's armory. Instead, the sword would be tucked into the young man's belt as he left for duty each day. It was a common belief in the neighborhood that the Emperor himself had stopped to admire the intricate sword, commenting on the skill of craftsmen long gone from Jurai. The envy of the well-to-do as they gazed at the sword always thrilled Aeka, knowing her husband possessed something which others valued.  
  
The other treasure flowed down her shoulders, reaching very nearly to the floor. Aeka's hair. Had Lady Tokimi herself moved in next door, Aeka would have let her hair hang out the window to dry, just to devalue Her Ladyship's galaxies and alternate dimensions.  
  
And now Aeka's beautiful hair fell about her, cascading down like a violet waterfall, glistening all the way down to her ankles. Dark, lavender hair which her Tenchi never seemed to tire of running his hands through. And then, first slowly, but faster and faster, Aeka braided her hair again, moving with the practiced skill of someone who has performed the same ritual on countless thousands of occasions. There is a difference this time. Usually the sure hands never falter, as they do this time. Usually the experienced hands don't have the quivering tremble of nervousness in them, as they do today. And never has a tear or two splashed onto the worn tatami floor of the apartment, as happens now.  
  
On goes the rest of her outfit, and with a pause at the mirror, Mrs. T. Masaki prepares to depart her domicile. A last look in the mirror shows eyes that are now devoid of tears, but that sparkle with determination. And then it's out the door and down the flights of stairs, this not being an odd numbered Thursday.  
  
Traveling with Mrs. Masaki, one finds her journey ending in a small lane just off a main thoroughfare, to find her reading the sign outside of a business establishment. "Madame Washu, The Greatest Scientific Genius in the Universe!" Well, that's just part of the sign; it's rather an extensive advertisement. Keep going lower and you'll find the part that Aeka is reading. No, not the part that says "Guinea Pigs Wanted." Lower, beneath the "Cabbits for Sale" line on the sign. There, there it is, "Hair Goods of All Kinds." With a last look at the sign, to double check the suite number, Aeka entered the establishment, went up one flight of stairs, and was greeted by a diminutive young woman, who herself possessed an extensive mane of red colored hair.  
  
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Aeka.  
  
"I buy hair," said Madame Washu. "But only if you call me Washu- chan! Unbraid it so I can take a good look at it."  
  
With a practiced eye to the texture and the weight of the violet valuables, a price was quickly agreed, scissors were reached for, and a treasure disappeared.  
  
The deed done, the next few hours were spent in a mercantile acquisition expedition of immense import. Which is to say that Aeka was ransacking the stores, along with hordes of other holiday shoppers, in her quest for Tenchi's present.  
  
She found it at last. It must have been made for Tenchi and no one else. There had been nothing like it any of the other stores, and Aeka had turned them all inside out. It was a leather scabbard, specially designed to hold an energy blade. With platinum engraving of the scabbard, the design was simple yet elegant, proclaiming its value by substance alone, and not by meaningless ornamentation, as all good things, and people, should do. It was a gift which was even worthy, not only of Tenchi, but also of The Sword.  
  
When Aeka saw it, she knew that it must be Tenchi's. It was like him, quiet yet strong, possessing an unmistakable quality that could only be described as "classic." The purchase took the funds received from Madame Washu in exchange for the violet treasure. It then took most of the meager savings scrimped over by Aeka for months, leaving the young woman barely enough for a ride on Jurai City's efficient but crowded public transportation.  
  
When Aeka reached home, a look at the Startica tree and its humble but heartfelt decorations washed away the last traces of loss for her one personal treasure. There would be a gift under the tree this evening when her husband came home. And so the young woman made another visit to the apartment's mirror, curling iron in one hand, hairbrush in the other, in a valiant attempt to repair the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, a mammoth task.  
  
After 40 minutes of work her head was covered with a multitude of curls, tiny close-lying curls, that made her look like what she was: someone trying to recover from a bad haircut. Finally putting away the repair tools, as well as other items whose usage had suddenly undergone a dramatic drop, such as the set of old, worn combs used for putting her hair up, Aeka looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.  
  
"If Tenchi doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a bounty hunter ready to do battle with space pirates. But what could I do, oh! What could I do with such a meager amount in the account?"  
  
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and dinner was heating on the stove, not up to the standards of the little blue-haired girl down the street, from whom this recipe had been obtained, but still a delicious scent emanated from the kitchen, waiting the arrival of the "young Guardsman" of advertisement legend.  
  
Tenchi was never late. Aeka twirled the ribbon which tied together the inexpensive yet tasteful wrapping paper around the gift she waited to give. Sitting on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered, she heard his step on the stair away down on the flight on the floor below. Aeka turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please Tsunami, make him think I am still pretty."  
  
The door opened and Tenchi stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Indeed, both his father and his grandfather had regularly noted that he was the serious type, taking after his mother in that regard. His garb was that of a Juarian Junior Guardsman, underpaid, under appreciated, yet always overworked.  
  
Tenchi stepped inside the door, and stopped, as transfixed as a cabbit at the scent of carrots. His eyes were fixed upon Aeka, and there was an expression in them that she could not read...and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with the most peculiar expression on his face.  
  
Aeka wriggled off the table and went for him.  
  
"Tenchi, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way! I had my hair cut off and sold it because I could not have lived through Startica without giving you a present. It will grow out again...you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it! My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Happy Startica!' Tenchi, and let's be happy. You do not know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."  
  
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Tenchi, struggling, as if he had not arrived at that basic fact despite battling over the issue of his eyes' plain appraisal of the truth.  
  
"Cut it off and sold it," said Aeka. "Do you not like me just as well, anyhow? I am me, with or without my hair, are I not?  
  
Tenchi looked about the room, as if looking for some hidden camera man to come out and reveal the joke at last.  
  
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air that reminded Aeka of the times the young man's grandfather had referred to her husband as a "bonehead."  
  
"You can look for it all you want, but it shall not be found," said Aeka. "It has been sold, I tell you...sold and gone this Startica Eve, my love. Be good to me, for it went for you. Perhaps the hairs on my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but no one could ever count my love for you. Shall I serve us dinner now, Tenchi?"  
  
Finally, like a mummy buried for centuries in an isolated cave, Tenchi seemed to finally awake. He enfolded his Aeka. While we gaze on an inconsequential object in the opposite direction of the couple for the next minute, let us say the twinkling lights on the Startica Tree, consider the difference between these surroundings and the Imperial palace visible in the distance through the small apartment's windows. A Junior Guardsman's salary or that of the Emperor himself...what is the difference? A mere mathematician or even the greatest scientific genius in the universe would give you the wrong answer. The Choushin brought valuable gifts, but such understanding was not one of them.  
  
Returning to the couple, as our brief sojourn has ended, Tenchi drew a package from his Guardsman's cloak pocket and placed it on the table.  
  
"Don't make any mistake, Ae-chan." he said, "about me." I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me love you any less. But if you'll unwrap this package you may see why you had me going for a while at first."  
  
Nimble white fingers tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! A quick change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the man of the house.  
  
For there lay The Combs...the set of combs, side and back, that Aeka had worshiped for long in a department store window on the city's main avenue. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims...just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved over them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers, but the tresses that should have been adorned by the coveted treasure of her dreams were gone.  
  
But she hugged the combs to her heart, and at length she was able to look up with tear filled eyes gone dim, and smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Tenchi!"  
  
And then Aeka leaped like a singed cabbit and cried, "Oh, oh!"  
  
For Tenchi had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly in her open arms. Unwrapping it, the precious metal and supple leather seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.  
  
"Is it not beautiful, Tenchi? I searched all over town to find it. You will have to perform sword salutes a hundred times a day now. Give me the sword. I want to see how it looks with the scabbard.  
  
Instead of obeying this pleasant wifely command, Tenchi tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.  
  
"Aeka," said he, "let's put our Startica presents away and keep 'em a while. They're much too nice to use just at present. I sold the sword at Miss Mihoshi's jewelry repair and pawn shop to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you serve us dinner, my love?"  
  
The Choushin, as you know, were wise women, gifted far beyond mere mortals, who brought gifts to mankind. They invented the art of giving Startica presents. Being wise and mighty, their gifts were no doubt ones of wisdom, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication.  
  
What the wise Choushin would think of the uneventful chronicle of two foolish young people in an apartment fit only for a "young Guardsman and family," who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house, will forever remain a mystery.  
  
But in a last word to the wise of these or any days, let it be said that of all who give and receive gifts, these two young lovers are the wisest. Everywhere and every time, they are the wisest and their gifts the most priceless. They are the Choushin. They are the magi.  
  
So a Happy Startica, one and all or Merry Christmas as the case might be. May you be blessed with wisdom in your own attempts at the giving and receiving of gifts.  
  
*****************************  
  
"The Gift of the Magi" was written by O. Henry. Every year, for my entire memory, the station manager at the local TV station would tell this story of the true meaning of Christmas.  
  
***************************  
  
A few additional notes:  
  
Casting the characters for a fusion is merely the first opportunity for a fanfic author to go wrong. Improper casting can kill many a fic before the first word is written. In this case, the casting was the least of my problems. Aeka, with her careful care of her hair was a natural to be cast in the part of O. Henry's Della, while Tenchi and that rare heirloom sword was perfect for the part of Jim, who was so proud of his heirloom pocket watch.  
  
This fic was originally written for the 2001 Christmas Contest at the Two Guys' Fan Fiction Review Page.  
  
The Choushin, taking the place of O. Henry's Magi, are, for those who don't know: Washu, Tsunami, and Tokimi, in order of oldest to youngest.  
  
FYI: The closing line, "They are the magi." was deliberately written, as a tribute to O. Henry, whose original story is one of the masterpieces of short fiction.  
  
C & C can be sent to Beagle-san at beagle_san@hotmail.com. 


End file.
